Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “Honestly,” Matt continued, “when I had time to think about it, I figured you’d been killed fighting the Japs. So many planes were lost so quickly, I knew the odds weren’t in your favor. The slaughter of the Air Corps was why the Navy had to leave the Philippines. We were sitting ducks.”

  Orrin nodded with a frown. “I know. And I nearly was killed more times than I care to think about.”

  Matt said nothing to that. The same was true for all of them now. “In retrospect,” he said instead, “I shouldn’t have been that amazed you made it here. On the scale of amazing things I’ve seen or learned over the past couple of years, that doesn’t really even make the chart. But I’m glad to see you.”

  They talked of many things that day. There was a lot of reminiscing, and they both considered what a tough war it must have been for the Reddy clan back home. They talked about the situation on this world, as Matt knew it, and Matt noticed how the war here was increasingly becoming Orrin’s war, as much as anyone’s. Then they talked about the old war, as Orrin knew it.

  Matt was appalled by the treatment Orrin and other POWs had suffered at the hands of the Japanese, and equally horrified by the atrocities inflicted on the Filipinos, whom the Japanese supposedly invaded to liberate. He’d never really liked the Philippines when he was stationed there—hadn’t much liked Walker back then, or the Asiatic Fleet in general, but he’d hated being run off. And then to hear what the Japanese had done after they left . . .

  “Our Jap guards crowed a lot about their successes,” Orrin explained, “which were depressingly frequent at first,” he admitted. “Then they started to clam up and things got worse for us, if that’s possible. Things started to go sour for them after the Coral Sea and Midway, and Guadalcanal. They didn’t crow about those, and most of what we heard about them was smuggled in by Filipinos to boost our morale.” He grinned. “But the first really good news we got was that Jimmy Doolittle had bombed Tokyo itself!” He looked seriously at Matt. “That was right after we heard the Asiatic Fleet had ceased to exist. I hated to hear that.”

  He kicked a black rock, and his grin returned. “Anyway, Doolittle’s stunt wasn’t much more than a poke in the eye, see? But it caused the Japs to take forces from their advancing fleets to beef up the defenses around the home islands, so the strategic effect was all out of proportion to the tactical one. Besides, it drove the Japs absolutely, fanatically nuts, and gave us a shot in the arm when we heard.” His face turned grim. “In spite of the increased beatings and sometimes ridiculously petty mistreatments.” Orrin had told Matt that the front line Japanese pilots and troops were first-class fighting men, but the prison guards acted like capricious, sadistic children with deadly weapons.

  Matt wasn’t surprised by Doolittle’s stunt. Doolittle had been a national hero long before the war, and Orrin, in particular, had practically worshipped the man when he and Matt were kids together. The son of a sailor, Matt had rooted for the Navy in the air races, but he still admired Doolittle immensely.

  “You know, I wonder,” Matt said absently, “if we could figure out a way and a reason to pull a stunt like Doolittle’s here.” He slapped his cousin on the back. “I think I’m going to keep that in my back pocket. I don’t believe— You said they made him a general? I don’t think General Doolittle would mind!”

  * * *

  Matt woke up in a white-painted, plank-wall room. A light breeze stirred the green curtains in the window, and at first he had no idea where he was. Then he remembered. Why on earth did they put green curtains in here? he asked himself. Yuck. They must’ve thought it was regulation or something. He sighed. His mouth was dry and he began to realize he hurt all over. His eyes were full of gummy goo and he wondered if he could get somebody’s attention. He heard an abrupt snort beside him and turned his head to see Isak Rueben sleeping in a chair beside the hard bed he was lying on. Isak’s head was tilted back, his mouth open, and Matt realized he’d been making those snorting sounds for some time.

  “Chief Rueben,” he managed to say. “Wake up, Chief.”

  Isak raised his head and blinked, then looked at Matt. He jumped to his feet, knocking the chair over with a loud crash. “Why, Cap’n Reddy! You’ve woke up at last! I’ll . . . I’ll run fetch somebody!” He darted from the room like a minnow.

  “Not exactly the face I’d hoped to wake up beside,” Matt murmured grumpily.

  “Which face is that?” came Sandra’s soft voice, almost beside his ear. He turned his head toward her and looked into her eyes.

  “Yours is better,” he said, and smacked his dry lips. Sandra was fully dressed but lying beside him on the skinny bed, with maybe a foot of it to herself. He wondered how long she’d been there.

  “Chief Rueben had the duty,” she answered his unasked question, “but when I came to check on you, he was asleep and I didn’t want to wake him.”

  “My ship?” he asked, and she nodded. “He helped Spanky get her in the floating dry dock.” She grinned. “And argued with Tabby like they were married the whole time.” Sandra screwed her face up and tried to recreate Isak’s weird voice. “You may be a engineerin’ loo-tinnit now, Tabby, but I recollect when you was pilin’ brontasarry turds on top o’ each other! This is my . . . GD dry dock!”

  Matt tried to laugh, but winced. Sandra rose and felt his forehead with the back of her hand, then stood. “I’ll get you some water,” she said.

  “I’d rather you stay here.”

  A commotion in the hallway preceded Chief Gray’s arrival with a pitcher and a cup. Others were behind him, trying to pass, but Gray kept them back with his elbows. He paused in the doorway. “Visitors?” he growled.

  Sandra shook her head. “Not yet. Saan-Kakja and the ambassador first. Maybe others later.” She motioned Gray forward with the pitcher.

  Gray looked over his shoulder. “You heard the lady, you buncha savages! The Skipper requires further repose!” The crowd eased back down the hall, and Gray handed over the pitcher triumphantly.

  “You too, Fitzhugh.”

  As taken aback by Sandra’s use of his first name as by the dismissal, Gray backed out of the room.

  Sandra turned back to Matt and poured water in the cup, then held it to his lips. “Slowly,” she said. “Just a few sips.” Matt obeyed, then looked at her. “Just us, just now, how bad is it?” he asked. His memory was returning, and he’d localized most of the pain to his right thigh and lower abdomen. Sandra took a breath.

  “I nearly lost you,” she whispered. “Again.”

  “Comes with the territory.”

  “I know,” she said, soft but harsh. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She looked at him. “A fragment of steel—Spanky saw it later and is convinced it was a piece of a rivet. He blames himself.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, it went deep in your thigh and clipped the femoral artery. That was actually the worst of it, but we couldn’t find the fragment! It just kept going up—and we were afraid it got into your intestines. That’s why you’re split from just above the knee past your belt line. It actually did get past your pelvis, but stopped short of anything . . . else. Thank God. You’ll be very sore for a while!”

  “Huh,” Matt said and looked under the sheet at the long, bandaged area. “Did you go ahead and take out my appendix while you had the hood up?”

  “This is not funny,” Sandra snapped.

  “No, it’s not,” Matt agreed. “Sorry. But it might have been a good idea. . . .”

  “I was busy! That fight killed some good men and Lemurians, and hurt a lot more. Carl Bashear was badly burned, and Ed Palmer had a broken collarbone and arm, and internal bleeding—”

  “And we lost Norm Kutas,” Matt said, remembering. “Damn.”

  “We lost Norm,” Sandra confirmed, “and nine Lemurians. It could have been much worse. Probably should have been. We were lucky.”

  “Well. At least we got that Jap destroyer,” Matt said quietly. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”


  Sandra hesitated, and his eyes narrowed. “We did get her, didn’t we?”

  “Spanky is almost certain we did,” Sandra admitted.

  “Almost?”

  Sandra’s eyes flared. “Yes, almost! She was badly hit, she has no fuel or any way to get it, and even if she didn’t sink, she has nowhere to go! Ultimately, we did get her, whether we saw her sink or not, and your ship and your crew—not to mention you—needed immediate attention! Mr. McFarlane made the right call, and you need to tell him so! Between that and the faulty rivets, he thinks he let you down, and we—everybody—need Spanky at the top of his game right now.”

  Matt was nodding. “You’re right,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘You’re right’!”

  A tentative smile touched Sandra’s lips. “Well. Of course I am.” She paused. “Saan-Kakja and Lord Forester will be back here soon, I’m sure. They met you when you came ashore, but I doubt you remember.” Her expression changed. “There have been a lot of developments, and no doubt they’ll want to hear your views. In the meantime, do you feel like eating anything?”

  * * *

  Saan-Kakja, Ambassador Forester, Chack, and Spanky arrived while Matt was eating a soft, colorless goo he couldn’t recognize, but which tasted something like tapioca pudding without the “fish eggs,” as he called them. After a short visit, they described the current situation in the east and west, and Matt had trouble finishing his meal. He was glad to see that the ambassador and Saan-Kakja seemed to like each other. That was going to be important.

  “What are your plans, Your Excellency?” Matt asked Saan-Kakja.

  “We must send everything we can to Generaal Aalden immediately!” she said. “His position is precarious, and the war in the east is stable for now.”

  Matt was shaking his head.

  “You do not agree?”

  “With respect, I think you should stick to the plan. High Admiral Jenks has done well, but if you interrupt his supply line now, it’ll take many more months to amass the combat power he needs to take the war to the Doms, and we have to keep them off balance. The Grik are the greatest short-term threat, but the Doms will catch up if we give them too much time.” He looked at Forester. “I’m sure you would agree.”

  Forester nodded reluctantly. “The situation in the Empire remains unstable, though the Governor-Empress has made great strides.” He looked at Saan-Kakja. “Your continued support and clear dedication to the war in the east will further strengthen her position. Like you, I yearn to aid your General Alden in this time of trial, but I would actually rather send Imperial troops to do it than give anyone in my country the mistaken impression that your resolve there is weakening.”

  Saan-Kakja was blinking hesitant agreement. “Perhaps. I would like to see more Imperial troops in the war against the Grik, and I do not want to even seem to be wavering in my support for my sister, Rebeccaa.” She jerked a nod. “It will be as you say, Mr. Ambaas-a-dor. The Fil-pin Lands will continue to concentrate our efforts in the east—but in exchange, I do want more Imperiaal troops brought here, and then committed in the west.”

  “Very well,” Forester said. “I’m sure the Governor-Empress will happily agree. We are in this war together, and the more of it we fight together, the stronger I think we will be.”

  “But . . . What about Generaal Aalden?” Chack asked. “He must be reinforced.”

  “He will be,” Matt said. “You can count on it. First Fleet took a beating, but it wasn’t wrecked—and I’ll bet the guys and gals on Andaman and in Baalkpan have already figured out a few surprises to counter the latest Grik stunts. I’ve got a few ideas myself.” He looked thoughtful, and shifted the pillows that kept him propped up. Sandra saw his difficulty and helped. He smiled at her. “What’s the status of the regiment you’re raising here?” he asked Chack.

  “It is not ready for combat. The new weapons are only now being issued, and the troops must grow familiar with them.” He shrugged. “So must I.”

  “And Risa’s regiment in Baalkpan?”

  “Much further along,” Chack confessed. “She has had them longer and has had the weapons from the start. The arsenal here is catching up but . . .” He blinked annoyance.

  “But you think you can have your troops ready for action before Walker is ready for sea again?”

  Chack would have winced if his face had the muscles for it. He’d seen Walker’s damage.

  “Yes Cap-i-taan. Will we go to Indiaa and aid . . . Generaal Aalden?”

  Matt knew Chack’s greatest concern was for his beloved Safir Maraan, but he would never say so in this context. He bit his lip. “Maybe . . . but maybe not.” He shrugged and pain shot up from his wound, and he shook his head sheepishly. “I’ve been keeping something in my back pocket for some time now. Maybe this is the time to take it out and have a look at it.” He looked at Chack. “It doesn’t involve going to India, but if we can pull it off, it should definitely help the expeditionary force that’s in a jam there.” He paused a moment, looking at the expectant faces. “As a matter of fact,” he said with growing conviction, “if we play our cards right, I think the stunt taking shape in my head might just leave the Grik with their ugly necks stuck out just far enough for us to cut their damn throats!”

  EPILOGUE

  The South of Africa

  Lieutenant Toryu Miyata was much recovered from his grueling ordeal. He still mourned his lost friends, but he’d been close enough to death himself, from exposure, that their loss had dimmed, and become somehow remote. Since his rescue, however, and during his gradual recuperation, he’d grown to realize that he’d stumbled into perhaps the most bizarre situation yet encountered on this strange world.

  He hadn’t seen it himself, but someone once told him about an odd book they’d read before the war about a place called Shangri-La. Somehow, he thought he remembered that the tale was set in China or Tibet, or some such place, but he’d honestly begun to wonder if he hadn’t actually found it here on what had to be the south coast of Africa, despite the chill. He hadn’t spent any time out of doors yet, or really even out of the room he’d been recuperating in, but there were windows, and he spent a lot of time staring out at the strange city. Never in his life had he seen such an . . . extraordinary combination of peoples—and not all of them were human!—yet they commingled and appeared to get along as well amid the bustle, as any similar number might in Tokyo!

  And the architecture! He knew of nothing to compare it to. He was young, and before the Navy he’d never traveled before, but the substantial buildings he saw from his window combined what he considered ancient traditional, eastern design with what he supposed was some kind of equally ancient western construction—and something else completely different—in an amazingly complementary fashion that he wouldn’t have thought possible. The result was a harmony of wood and stone, columns and high pagodas that had clearly been blending together long enough that it seemed somehow right. Curved, ornate roofs predominated, covered with tile or copper, but the columns that supported them flowed as well, sometimes tapering toward the center, with admirable stonework at the top and bottom.

  Bright colors abounded beneath the often-overcast sky, and teeming throngs surged in the open markets in equally garish costumes. Stunningly bizarre animals, the like of which he’d never seen among the Grik, pulled long trains of carts loaded with goods or passengers. Several times he saw columns of troops dressed in a warmer, more practical, but also more ornate version of what some of his comrades had termed the Grik Roman-style military garb, march past his window, the crowd parting before them. Just as among the civilian populace, all manner of beings were in their ranks. It was outlandish and amazing and disconcerting all at once.

  His nurse—a female human!—appeared normal enough, and was clearly of Asian descent, though he had no idea what other blood she carried. She was nice, attentive, and even beautiful, he thought, but he didn’t understand a word she said. It was all so confu
sing. His nurse was Asian, but his “rescuers” spoke English—and he would have sworn one of them had a German accent! He didn’t think he was a prisoner—no one seemed to guard him—but what was he? Probably not exactly a guest. He believed he was recovered enough that he might be ready to explore, but hesitated to push his bounds without talking to someone first, and as far as he could tell, except for the nurse, he’d been forgotten.

  He was alone at the moment, and heavy, booted footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond his chamber. He tensed, expecting visitors at last, and stood from his chair. He wished he could meet his benefactors in his uniform, but its remnants had been destroyed, he was sure, and he tried to affect a stoic expression while dressed only in the ankle-length woolen robe he’d been given.

  Two men appeared in the broad doorway, accompanied by what looked exactly like one of the Lemurian allies of the Americans! All regarded him intently for a moment before stepping inside. He remained standing, stiffly at attention.

  “You look better,” said a tall, bearded man in accented English. He wore a battered dark blue, or maybe black, hat with a scuffed leather brim with an embroidered cockade Toryu didn’t recognize. He also wore an equally battered dark blue jacket, but his white shirt, trousers, and heavy boots were clearly much newer. Toryu thought he recognized the German who’d found him. The man spoke to the others in what sounded like the same language the nurse used, then turned to face him again. “I am Becher Lange,” the man said, and shrugged. “My kapitan calls me kapitan leutnant now, but I was only a fireman in SMS Amerika when she staggered into this world, so it makes no difference to me what the old man calls me. You and I have met, though you may not remember. Call me Becher.” He extended a hand, and Toryu saw a bright metal oval on his wrist, held by a leather band. He also noted how matter-of-factly he spoke of how he got here, obviously fully expecting Toryu to know what he meant.